The sound of urgent knocking on the window—dong, dong, several times—caught Qun Qing’s attention.

She opened the window to find the pale face of a young lady outside. Upon seeing her, the girl urgently said, “Liu Niang, I’ve sent you so many letters—why haven’t you replied to me? I climbed over the wall to get here and twisted my ankle.”

Qun Qing recognized the girl before her as Weiran, daughter of the Secretariat Director. Some days ago, when she had caused that commotion at the banquet, Weiran had voluntarily stepped forward to pull her aside and ask her various questions, even saying she wanted to befriend her. But she’d been pulled away by Shi Yuming before she could say much.

“What letters? I haven’t received any,” Qun Qing said.

A trace of confusion appeared on Weiran’s face. “I gave them to your elder brother. And once, I ran into your grandfather at the gate—he said he would pass them along to you.”

Seeing Qun Qing’s bewilderment, Weiran tilted her head tentatively. “There were also some other young ladies and gentlemen who sent you calling cards—you didn’t receive any of those either?”

Qun Qing couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, and only looked toward her foot. “Did you come by carriage? Is your foot alright?”

“What carriage? Don’t you know?” Weiran laughed. “My family’s residence is right near yours. I’ve known for ages that the Shi family had a young lady, but I’d never once run into you. It wasn’t until that banquet last time that I saw you for the first time. Turns out you’re neither mute nor blind, you don’t have a mole on your face, and you’re bright and clever—so why does no one ever see you?”

Weiran had said so much that even though Qun Qing wanted to refute her, she found herself at a loss for words.

From the time she could remember until age eleven, her sphere of activity had been confined to this residence and the courtyards before and behind it. All her clothing and cosmetics were arranged by her parents. The only person she’d ever seen visit was Lin Yujia, to the point that she didn’t even recognize her neighbor Weiran.

Her days were spent in the embroidery room, her nights accompanied by books. She had once asked her parents what the East and West Markets described in books looked like. Her mother told her that her health was weak and she was slow-witted, that she might breach etiquette and invite ridicule, but that once she grew up and married, she’d be able to go see for herself.

Qun Qing had thought all young ladies grew up this way, until she saw the travel-worn Weiran and the veil in her hands—she was clearly an exception. And there was what she’d mentioned about calling cards and letters.

A strange emotion churned in her chest. Toward this safe and comfortable boudoir before her, Qun Qing suddenly felt a few degrees of unfamiliarity. Yet she wasn’t stupid after all, and said, “Next time you come, just tuck the letter into the lattice by my window…”

Before Qun Qing could finish speaking, they both heard the door sound. Weiran swiftly pulled out a piece of paper from her sleeve, pressed it under the window lattice, and ran.

After running quite far, she turned back to quietly instruct, “Can you read it? Use rice soup!”

Mother came in carrying lunch just as Qun Qing shut the window tight. She could feel Mother standing behind her, watching.

She suppressed her heartbeat and turned around as casually as possible, but the paper slipped from her sleeve and fluttered down by her feet.

Qun Qing’s heart sank. Zhu Ying stepped forward first to pick up the paper, a touch of severity between her brows.

However, after examining both sides, there wasn’t a single character—it was just a blank sheet of paper.

Qun Qing quietly and carefully glanced at Mother.

Zhu Ying’s temperament was cold, but when she became angry, she emanated a chilling, frightening coldness. Like all children, she wasn’t afraid of her mother losing her temper at her, but rather feared this coldness that kept people at arm’s length, as if approaching her would result in being mercilessly pushed away.

Mother gently set the blank paper on her vanity table, then sighed as she straightened the positions of the comb and powder, as if that moment of severity had been merely Qun Qing’s illusion.

The wooden tray Mother had brought held vegetables, roasted chicken, and egg-drop soup, fragrant and appetizing. Qun Qing didn’t touch her bowl or chopsticks but first picked up the porcelain bottle on the wooden tray, pulled out the stopper, and sniffed. “Artemisia, rose, cinnamon bark, fennel seeds.”

Zhu Ying smiled and nodded, then conjured another bottle from her sleeve for her to smell. Qun Qing said, “Cicada molting, dandelion.”

“Not complete,” Zhu Ying gazed at her full of expectation. “Think again.”

Qun Qing caught the scent of animal blood.

The smell made her somewhat nauseous.

She had nearly grown accustomed to this game between mother and daughter before meals—Zhu Ying would occasionally produce newly mixed medicinal concoctions to test her medical knowledge. Pulse diagnosis, bandaging, emergency treatment techniques—without her realizing it, she had become extremely proficient. Yet she seemed never to have asked Mother what purpose learning all this served. Nor had she remembered to ask Weiran whether other young ladies also played such games.

Looking up, she met Zhu Ying’s eyes full of expectation.

Qun Qing poured some onto a small spoon and drank it. In the past, when she couldn’t identify something by smell, she would pour some out to taste, and Zhu Ying never stopped her.

The medicine entering her mouth was extremely bitter.

She should have been very tolerant. She should have already learned to smile at Mother even when feeling very uncomfortable.

Yet she had forgotten whether she had tasted sweetness somewhere, such that she could no longer endure this bitterness. She spat it out into a handkerchief all at once and looked up. “Mother, I’d like to eat first. May I?”

Perhaps the young lady’s eyes were too dark and bright—Zhu Ying showed slight surprise but said nothing more. She put away the porcelain bottle. “You must be hungry. Eat quickly.”

The food had already cooled somewhat.

Qun Qing finished eating in a few bites, then gathered her courage. “Mother, I want to go out and play, to visit Weiran’s home.”

At this, Zhu Ying, who had been making the bed, suddenly turned around. “Seeing you were ill, I didn’t call you to the embroidery room and let you rest in your chamber for several days. I never thought you’d be so lazy—even putting on airs with me over a meal. If I had carried on like you back then, the instructress would have expelled me from the palace long ago! Your poetry, calligraphy, and needlework already lag behind others, and now you want to go out showing your face—aren’t you afraid of others’ mockery?”

“My needlework hasn’t deteriorated,” Qun Qing rarely contradicted her.

“This is what you call your needlework?” Zhu Ying pulled out the embroidery she’d kept under her pillow, looked at it once, broke it in half, and said, “Not good enough!”

No, that’s not right.

The embroidery hoop fell floating downward. Amid the surging anger, a gentle female voice appeared in Qun Qing’s mind: Later you already knew—in truth, you had already done well enough, had already surpassed most people. Don’t be angry, don’t doubt, don’t fear, don’t imprison yourself.

“Mother is deceiving me—in truth, I’ve already surpassed most people!” She blurted this out.

Zhu Ying seemed startled by her words. Her face showed a moment of blankness, then several traces of sorrow welled up in her eyes. “Mother’s painstaking efforts—you don’t understand now, but you’ll know in the future.”

“Mother…” Qun Qing immediately regretted her actions somewhat.

“Don’t you want a mother?” Zhu Ying wore a long dress and draped shawl, her face as coldly pale as in her youth. As if wounded by her words, she said quietly, “Qing Qing, haven’t you been searching for me all along? Why won’t you live properly under my protection, always wanting to run outside?”

The young lady embraced her, throwing herself into that cold yet comforting embrace, afraid that if she let go, Mother would disappear. But Zhu Ying gently pulled her away. “Think carefully about this yourself.”

She turned gracefully and closed the door, leaving Qun Qing in the chamber’s solitude.

A silence sealed as tightly as a prison, blocking out the fine rain sounds from outside the window.

She didn’t know what kind of world lay beyond.

Qun Qing picked up that blank paper and used her chopsticks to dip into the rice soup in her bowl, applying it to the blank paper.

After a moment, ink marks indeed appeared on it.

This was an invitation—Weiran was inviting her to the birthday banquet for the Lin family’s lady six days hence. Undoubtedly, she couldn’t go. But fortunately, Weiran, fearing she might embarrass herself, had even drawn ladies in fine brushwork showing how to dress, revealing how young ladies outside dressed when attending banquets.

Qun Qing stared curiously at the ink-line lady’s hair ornaments, unconsciously curving her lips.

Even if she couldn’t go out, nothing prevented her from opening the drawer and dressing before the mirror as shown in the picture.

However, as soon as she pulled open the drawer, her gaze froze.

Inside the hidden compartment lay a red flower, vividly crimson as blood.

Qun Qing was nearly frightened and flustered. Because she never wore red flowers. On ordinary days, when her parents arranged her clothing, everything was in light colors and simple styles. All things gaudy seemed to have become forbidden words, utterly separated from her.

She didn’t know where this red flower had come from, yet it had indeed appeared here, blazing brilliantly. Qun Qing should have thrown it away, but when she grasped it, her heartbeat became extraordinarily intense.

No one dislikes such intense color.

She was no exception.

As if committing a transgression, she clutched it in her palm, clutching until cold sweat formed in her hand—

“No, does this really work?” Juan Su watched as incense burners and Buddha statues were continuously carried into the side chamber. “Didn’t the master not believe in this sort of thing before?”

“If he doesn’t believe, why would he become a Buddhist disciple?” Zhu Su said. “At a time like this, when she won’t wake after so long, we have to try everything to feel satisfied.”

Juan Su was about to speak again when Zhu Su tugged at him, and the two of them went in together to help carry out the obstructing screen.

The most frightened was that maid. “That talk of soul-loss syndrome was just a legend from my hometown. It’s all this servant’s loose tongue—this servant knows her error.”

“Why are you afraid? I won’t punish you,” Lu Huating had already bathed and changed clothes. He washed both hands in the golden basin and looked at her calmly. “Tell me, what must be done next?”

“Light… three sticks of incense, pay respects to the Guanyin Bodhisattva Who Relieves Suffering and Difficulty, then take turns going in to call the lady’s name. If the lady’s soul has lost its way, it can be called back.” The maid knelt down.

Zhu Su and Juan Su exchanged glances, called the maids from inside out, arranged them in a queue, and had them enter the room one by one to offer incense and call out.

Lu Huating stood to one side, listening to the high and low voices calling “Madam” around him. He watched the sunlight outside the door gradually slant westward, seeing that long queue grow shorter and shorter. Suddenly he said, “Enough.”

“Everyone out.” As he spoke, he shut the main door.

Inside the side chamber it was very quiet—only the two of them remained.

Lu Huating picked up three sticks of incense, about to light them, when he suddenly hesitated and looked toward the Buddha statue.

A person like him who had committed patricide and killed his master, who bore such great sins—would he cause the Bodhisattva to redirect anger toward Qun Qing?

After a long while, an unprecedented hesitation and fear arose. He put the incense back down. He stood fixed for a moment, then lifted his robes to kneel and bow, performing the rites of a sinner.

Only then did he rise, his gaze intently fixed on Qun Qing’s face.

“Qun Qing,” he called. “My wife.”

“Liu Niang.”

“Qing Qing.”

“…”

He lowered his lashes, pressed his hand on her shoulder, slightly parted his lips. “Shi Yuqing.”

“Shi Yuqing.”

“Shi Yuqing.”—

“Shi Yuqing.”

Amid wind and rain, outside the embroidery room window, Qun Qing suddenly thrust the silver needle in her hand into the embroidery cloth.

In the darkness, she only suspected she’d been alone too long and was experiencing hallucinations.

No one would come looking for her at this time, because she didn’t really know anyone.

But she clearly heard someone calling her name.

That voice pierced through the rain sounds, extremely persistent.

Qun Qing sat fixed for a long while, then got up and opened the door. Outside stood an unfamiliar youth.

His cloth garments were soaked through by rainwater, his hanging black hair plastered to his face, but a pair of jet-black eyes stared straight at her. He had a face as elegant as wind, as coldly mocking as snow, yet the corners of his mouth turned slightly downward, as if somewhat displeased.

Qun Qing had never seen such a beautiful person since birth. She couldn’t help staring at him for a long while before asking, “Who are you?”

“Shi Yuqing, have you forgotten? I am your future husband.” The youth’s displeasure deepened, rainwater continuously dripping down from his jaw.

Qun Qing looked up at the youth for a long while, confirming she didn’t know him. She asked hesitantly, “The betrothal… has Lin Yujia changed appearance?”

The youth’s face changed color, and the expression in his pupils seemed angry. “I’m not Lin Yujia. Look carefully at who I am.”

Hearing this, Qun Qing boldly stared at his face, then curiously examined his clothing and shoes. His clothes were worn, and his shoes especially were almost worn through, sunk in the mud, stirring compassion in her. “Where have you come from?”

The youth followed her gaze downward and answered, “I’ve crossed half the realm, walked very far, walked for many years to find you.”

Qun Qing understood—he was that extra red flower, a spirit transformed into human form, a strange encounter from dreams, someone impossible to meet in her nearly sealed girlhood. She was very happy to see him.

She took out that red flower from her sleeve and asked him, “Is this your possession?”

The youth’s lips curved. “So you do remember. This is what I gave you.”

“Shi Yuqing, I’ve come to marry you.” He said, “If you’re living very unhappily, then come with me.”

With that, he grasped her sleeve, as if to pull her out from that cramped embroidery room lit by a single lamp into the vast heaven and earth and wind and rain, just as she had hoped for countless times.

The painting on paper, the disappeared letters, the bitter bottles, the cocoon-like curtains floated into her mind. Ultimately, it was her desire to know the truth that gained the upper hand. Qun Qing firmly grasped the hand within his sleeve. The youth’s hand was cold but strong—he gripped hers in return and began running outward.

Qun Qing turned her head back and saw Mother’s unwilling shadow standing far away in the rain curtain, still as a stone statue. Finally feeling somewhat uneasy, she asked, “Where are we going? Is it very far? Are we leaving Chang’an?”

The youth turned his face, looked at her with some incomprehension, then gazed at their tightly clasped hands. “My wife, I am yours. As long as you don’t let go of me, wherever you want to go, that’s where we’ll go.”

…

In the white light as the great dream dispersed, Qun Qing silently opened her eyes. Lu Huating stared fixedly at her, his fingers on her shoulder suddenly tightening.

Before he could react, she sat up and threw her arms around his neck. Her black hair lightly scattered across the back of his hand. Lu Huating had long since silently embraced her even tighter.